


Comfort Food

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cheeky Valentine's Cards, Deepthroating, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Genital Piercing, Horrible Sexual Puns, Humor, M/M, Minor come play, Multiple Orgasms, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Oblivious Teammates, Oral Sex, Riding Steve Rogers Like a Fucking Stallion, Rimming, Sexual Humor, Snarky Fuckers, Steve and Bucky and Nat are Trolling Champions, Supersoldiers in Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: Natasha probably thinks she's dropping some long-overdue and wildly-unsubtle hints to her favorite fossils, what with the lewd food-themed puns on the Valentine's cards she's sending them. Fact is: they never needed the hints.But they'll happily take advantage of the lewd suggestions from cute cartoon food items, anyway.(Because who says no to an ice cream cone begging "lick me 'til I scream"? Certainly not Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. They don'tneedthe excuse, but it'd be shameful to dismiss the humor.)





	1. Carbohydrates

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta'd. Totally impulsive. Absolutely nonsensical. Blame fucking [Paperchase](https://www.paperchase.co.uk/valentines/all-valentines) (which is where credit for all of the images goes, of course).

Natasha, being Natasha, hadn’t given them any indication as to where she was going, or when she’d be back. Which means the fact that the card comes, with her clear script on the address, and no attempt to hide either the postmark or the provenance is intentional.

Huh.

“What’s that?”

Steve pops his head onto Bucky’s shoulder, curious as Bucky flips through the mail: bills, bills, junk mail—

And god, _god_ : what a marvel that is, _this_ is— _they are_ , like this, together and breathing and warm and sometimes, just sometimes, arguably, boringly _normal_.

Fucking marvel, s’what that is. 

“You got one too,” Bucky announces as he unfolds a grocery ad to reveal another card, same size, heft, same envelope and handwriting and city or origin as he passes it over his shoulder to poke Steve’s nose.

“What’s she thinking?”

Bucky shrugs. “Beats me. She’s a _real_ Russian spy, y’know. I was only ever the knock-off brand. Fuck if I know what goes through that woman’s head.”

Steve bumps his cheek to Bucky’s, scruff to scruff against Bucky’s five o’clock shadow; Bucky hums, and Steve can hear the subtle grin in it: knows what’s in _Steve’s_ head: that Bucky’s not the knock-off brand of anything; not to Steve.

“Color kinda suggests the intent, though,” Bucky turns his card over: baby pink. Steve’s is a lavender that’s almost garish.

Steve’s quiet for a second, mouthing at Bucky’s neck, his jawline softly, almost a whisper, almost just a suggestion of heat.

“Which means one of two things.”

Bucky’s grin spreads wider. “Basically.”

“She’s teasing us,” Steve nips below Bucky’s earlobe; lets his tongue tease as he pulls back, kisses where his teeth had been.

“Definitely possible,” Bucky agrees.

“Or,” Steve moves to the back of Bucky’s neck, kisses there slow under it draws a shiver down Bucky’s spine and, oh, yeah. That.

 _That_ , until Steve’s at his other ear, murmuring close:

“She’s meddling.”

Bucky leans into Steve’s heat. “Much more likely.”

“Which means she _still_ doesn’t know we’re already together,” Steve leans forward to meet Bucky’s body, and it’s only the combined force of weight against weight, perfectly balanced, impeccably matched that keeps them upright, and that’s exactly what they are, what they’ve always been, more than body and shape, both less in the face of so much soul.

Bucky snorts a little, though, even as he soaks up the bone-deep warmth of just being, just feeling, just _them_.

“No one else seems to.”

“But of _all_ people,” Steve protests, and he’s got a point: if anyone _should_ get it, it’s Natasha. But.

“If there’s one thing I learned,” Bucky drawls a little, like he does when he’s full-on wrapped up in Steve, just so; “t’s that hiding in plain sight sometimes really _is_ the best strategy.”

“But we’re not even _hiding_ ,” Steve pouts, and if only the world could see this Steve Rogers: the real one. The one who whines petulantly as he presses full-body, wholly naked into the man he loves.

Actually, scrap that. The world doesn’t get to see this. 

This is theirs.

“You’ve got a reputation,” Bucky counters, a little sly. He can chart Steve’s indignation in every twitch of his frame before the inhale, the gasp.

“ _I’ve_ got a reputation?” And okay. Fine. Bucky Barnes had had his own reputation that’s about as accurate as Steve’s so-called one, fair dues. 

“Wonder-Bread, apple-pie, tucked-shirt kinda guy,” Bucky maps out Steve’s star-spangled falsehood of a public image. Steve hates apple pie. “Bring you home to ma in a heartbeat, y’know.”

That part’s true.

“You brought me home to your mother the day we met.”

See? True.

“Always did have good taste,” Bucky congratulates himself, tips his head back to press lips to Steve’s cheek. Steve just tightens his hold ‘round Bucky’s middle.

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” Steve says, just a little self-deprecating, but they’ve had that conversation enough times now that it’s only a lilt, only an echo, and Bucky drags his front teeth down Steve’s jawline as a subtle reprimand for it—Steve is the _best_ taste a man could have, and he’ll prove the figurative in the literal with no complaint—and yeah.

Bucky has _impeccable_ taste.

“Jesus, though,” Steve rallies, reaching one hand up to tap Bucky’s card with his own, both still in each of their grasps.

“Elite team of superheroes, tasked with protecting the Earth from evil both on-planet and off,” Steve sighs; “can’t tell if the actual embodied definition of _til death do us part_ is fucking or just making eyes obviously across an alien invasion.”

“Well,” Bucky reasons. “We do that too. He smirks, and leans back to nudge Steve into a proper kiss. “Sans obliviousness.”

“We used our share of that all up in the early 30s, yeah?” Steve tongues at the corner of Bucky’s mouth playfully. 

“More than,” Bucky agrees, and maybe he works his hips just so, his sweatpants worn thing enough so that Steve’s bare cock lines just against the cleft of his ass. “Greedy fuckers, we were.”

“Are,” Steve rocks forward just a little, and mmm, yeah.

“ _Are_.”

Steve noses at his shoulder idly, doesn’t stop rocking in, just a tease; just enough.

“Open it,” he urges, even as he diverts his own attention to kissing along the nape of Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky lets himself enjoy it thoroughly, as he slides a metal finger underneath the seal of the envelope.

And pulls out the card.

“Oh my god.”

Steve pauses, moves to look at whatever’s got Bucky gasping in a single go, wheezing as he doesn’t ease into the laughter, but jumps straight into maniacal cackling; Steve makes to look at it, but Bucky’s dropped it as he doubles over.

“Oh my fucking _god_ ,” he gasps out, and Steve’s eyeing him suspiciously, maybe a little bit concerned; though Bucky knows the look to well not to notice the fringe of it that’s not yet died: the sheer joy of seeing _Bucky_ know joy, because Steve loves him something fierce, and that’s lucky, isn’t it?

Because Bucky doesn’t even know what love is, outside of Steve.

“Fuck,” and it’s because of that love that Bucky’s where he is now, who he is now, and can laugh like a fucking moron at the absolutely fucking absurd card the most badass spy he’s ever known decided to send him from London to presumably push him into bed with the love of his life, and his lover of enough decades that Bucky knows the body behind him better than he knows his own; “ _fuck_.”

“Don’t have a coronary, Buck,” Steve deadpans, and Bucky turns, then, and pushes Steve’s card toward him fervently.

“Open yours,” Bucky demands, still catching his breath, still giggling; “c’mon, lemme see.”

Steve’s still raising a brow his way as he slides his nail beneath the fold, but then the envelopes open. Then he _sees_.

His eyes go big, and then Bucky watches it, as if in slow-motion: those broad shoulders, that gorgeous chest as it heaves, as it starts to shake.

“Oh my _god_.”

And Bucky’s quicker than Steve; he sees the card before Steve loses himself to mirth.

“Don’t have a coronary, Stevie,” Bucky quips back, and it’s strange and beautiful, that he can say it, that he can tease it: something that could have happened any moment, once upon a time, but now.

But _now_

“Jerk,” Steve shoots back, and snakes his arm back around Bucky’s waist.

“So,” he says, considering, Brooklyn coloring his tone in the sweetest of ways. “Way I see it, we got two options.”

Bucky outright snorts at that.

“Way _I_ see it, there’s only one worth considering. I mean, she’s a smart woman,” Bucky leans in, and drags his words against Steve’s lips. “Best take her advice.”

And oh, Steve’s the best thing, the only thing in the world that matters at all, but when he smiles, when he _laughs_ —

“Fuck, I love you,” Steve says as he slides hands inside the waist of Bucky’s pants and pulls him toward the bedroom by broad hands cupped around Bucky’s ass.

And for everything Steve is, when he smiles; when the loves he gives to Bucky is fresh on his tongue: that.

 _That_ is when Steve tastes the sweetest.

______________________________________

“So,” Steve says, bouncing a little as he fall onto the mattress: “you first? Or me?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure if she didn’t know about _us_ , she didn’t know,” Bucky glances down indicatively as he finishes stripping what Steve left him in terms of clothes. 

“Yeah, no idea,” Steve nods enthusiastically; overeager, like a fucking puppy. “I told her I wasn’t ready for piercings.”

Bucky huffs, but if overeager gets Steve’s fingers, then his mouth on the case of Bucky’s cock that quick, well.

Overeager it is.

“Right,” Bucky thinks about fighting to keep the moan out of his voice, but really, why bother? “So I mean, technically, they can kinda go together.”

“Think she thought that through?” Steve asks between mouthing at Bucky’s balls almost idly, almost Pavlovian. 

“Doubtful,” Bucky answers, reaching to play at the magic little spot Steve’s got between his collarbones. “She doesn’t know we’re more than one kinda veteran, now, does she?”

“That was terrible,” Steve groans, but then Bucky moves to tug on his hair, and well. If the collarbones were sensitive...

“ _You’re_ terrible,” Bucky smirks down at him as Steve gasps into a moan of his own, and Bucky watches Steve firm up, feels Steve harden against his leg.

“Oh look,” Bucky snarks; “made ya rise, babe.”

Steve runs the tip of his tongue from the head of Bucky’s cock down, down behind his balls.

“Does it count,” Steve asks, “if this ain’t _exactly_ a stud?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, as Steve puts a practiced amount of pressure against the metal of the guiche beneath the skin, curved between those two telling spheres that Steve likes to tongue at, and Bucky’d really rather Steve use his mouth there instead of on stupid fucking questions that don’t really matter.

Fucking _tease_.

“I don’t got a fuckin’ muffin, babydoll,” Bucky growls; “it’s gonna have to do.”

And Steve’d been real attached to the piercing from the first—early days as Bucky came back to himself, as Bucky decided he wanted to put some metal on his body that was of his own choosing; wanted it to make him feel good instead of anything less—Steve had been right on board with the idea of it from the get-go, but the reality of it?

Bucky’s not sure Steve had been prepared for how ready he _actually_ was for a piercing. Not that Bucky fucking _minds_.

“I’m good with that,” Steve decides, and kisses delicate against one of the tiny steel balls, taking Bucky’s breath away in a single purse of lips. 

“Better be,” Bucky pants, half growl, half whimper, and nothing at all, really, save for need.

“More than good with that,” Steve says, working back further and teasing Bucky’s ass for just a second before he laves the flat of his tongue over the ring, across Bucky’s balls and up to the tip of his cock to lick around the head. 

“Sweet like a muffin,” Steve declares, almost innocent, and Bucky snorts a laugh even as he feels his blood start to pound tellingly. 

“And there we go,” Steve grins, grinding his hardness down against Bucky’s thigh as he noses the shaft of Bucky’s own: “I knew you’d be happy to rise to the occasion, too.”

“Since when did I leave you hanging on your own, huh?” Bucky asks, honest for all that it’s said between stolen breaths as he feels the tightness, the heat in him build.

“Hanging? Oh, wow,” and Steve looks up with wide, innocent eyes, abandoning Bucky’s dick to Bucky’s utter dismay before he takes deft fingers and cups Bucky’s balls, dances fingers across the skin until it’s tight just short of pain, no threat of fucking _hanging_ as he smirks: 

“My bad.”

And Bucky throws his head back and hisses sharp as Steve swallows him in a single, unforgiving, absolutely _perfect_ go:

“Fucking _punk_.”

Steve grins cheekily around Bucky’s cock and yeah.

Fucking punk.


	2. Dairy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Up, lazy bones.”
> 
> Contrary to popular belief and yes, admittedly, all precedent set: Steve hates mornings. Still, it’s pushing 11 and the mail guy has been and gone, and, well.
> 
> That might be why Bucky gives a shit about waking Steve up.
> 
> He doesn’t say anything about getting out of bed, though. Not a coincidence.
> 
> “Mmmmno,” Steve humphs, muffled as he buries his head further into his pillow.

“Up, lazy bones.”

Contrary to popular belief and yes, admittedly, all precedent set: Steve hates mornings. If Steve were in charge of the world, he’d probably choose to sleep until the sun was unavoidable even through the darkest of curtains and the tightest of blinds, and even then he’d fight it. Steve, however, is also a bit of a martyr—not that he’d admit to it, but Bucky’s always had the punk’s number—and in lieu of ways to fix a thing he blames himself for? He likes to punish himself a little.

Hence the monstrosity that Bucky’d almost failed to believe when revealed to him: that being Steve’s apparent penchant for _early morning runs_.

Yeah. That died quick, on Bucky’s watch.

Still. It’s pushing 11 and the mail guy—who Bucky actually kinda likes, sometimes holds up just to chat a bit—has been and gone, and, well.

That might be why Bucky gives a shit about waking Steve up.

He doesn’t say anything about getting out of bed, though. Not a coincidence.

“Mmmmno,” Steve humphs, muffled as he buries his head further into his pillow. 

Bucky smirks, and grabs for the end of the comforter. Yanks hard.

Steve curls into himself automatically, fucking adorable with how he makes himself small despite the impossibility of it, arms hugging himself and grabbing for BUcky pillow to squeeze to his chest in protest.

“Unpleasant,” Steve shoots back, eyes screwed shut petulantly; “but I run hot.”

“Modest.”

Bucky’s to blame for what happens next: he’d been expecting his own pillow in the face.

He should have been expecting the swift, not-so-soft nudge-slash-kick to his shin out from under the remaining sheets.

“Ow.”

Steve snuggles further into the mattress, smirk audible in his reply: “Try harder.”

And Steve should know better than to say something like that, _like that_.

No. No—Steve _does_ know better. 

And oh, but Bucky _loves_ him.

He launches himself with a little extra right atop Steve’s frame, lets his quickly stiffening cock swell against Steve’s hip.

“How’s that?” Bucky purrs, leaning down and sucking at the lope of Steve’s ear before he whispers; “for _harder_?”

“Mmmm,” Steve hums, turning away from his pillow to capture Bucky’s mouth: “yes.”

And maybe Steve turns over, never breaking the kiss. Maybe Bucky lines his cock against Steve’s as he wraps around Steve’s body, blankets him entirely as he rocks, drags slow and soft until Steve whimpers, until Steve growls and curls a hand in Bucky’s hair and pulls him down to coax the kiss impossibly _deeper_ , until Bucky’s heart trips with it, until his body hums with it, until he’s got his own hands framing Steve’s face just to cherish, just to claim, and Steve hives beautifully under him and maybe they do come fast and sloppy like the young men they were never quite able to be: maybe they do.

And it’s fucking exquisite.

“You’ve got mail,” Bucky breathes, doesn’t so much break the soft-heady still that’s made of just their panting and the musk of what they are, what they make on the air: he doesn’t break it so much as ease into it, just another note to the quiet, and Steve doesn’t respond at first to what may have been a non-sequitur, had it not been for yesterday’s rousing performance of Steve toying with Bucky’s piercing and coming unchecked just for the hell of it.

Steve blinks, less sleep and more the haze of the comedown, and purses his lips in thought as he stretches out, starfish-style beneath Bucky, a touch at every corner of the bed, vulnerable and open and everything Bucky’s ever wanted, now his.

Always his.

Remarkable.

“Coffee first?” Steve asks, a little plaintively, still a touch doe-eyed.

“Probably worthwhile,” Bucky agrees, grabbing Steve’s hands in his own and tugging him halfway to upright. “Caffeine, energy.”

“You know that’s not a thing for us.”

“Placebo effect,” Bucky counters; “Totally real.”

He tosses a greeting card onto the mattress next to Steve’s hand as proof, as reason in itself.

Because it is both: proof, and reason.

“And thank god for that,” Steve whistles low, eyes starting to twinkle, to dance with dangerous, fabulous promise. “Mine as good?”

“Dunno,” Bucky shrugs; “felony to open someone else’s mail, yeah?”

Steve quirks a brow, not buying it. Smart man.

“It’s just as good,” Bucky says, and gives in too quickly in handing over Steve’s card in kind.

“Oh,” Steve says slowly, full of building, kindling heat as he studies the cards, and then meets Bucky’s eyes to catch the flame and set the blaze: “ _Oh_.”

Bucky’s grin just grows as he leans down to kiss the bow of Steve’s lip, the tip of his nose and then drags himself up and toward the door to their room.

“Brewed that shitty blend you like so much,” Bucky tosses over his shoulder, both incentive and promise: “come and get it, sleepyhead.”

This time, Bucky _does_ get a pillow to the back of his head, but he just laughs, because it’s a beautiful thing isn’t it, to be like this. To be them. Together.

It’s a beautiful fucking thing.  
______________________________________

“So,” Steve says, and he leads Bucky slowly back into the bedroom after they’ve had something of a leisurely mid-morning breakfast, toying with the waistband of Bucky’s boxer briefs and dragging him by the elastic, licking his lips as he walked them backward, and Bucky’s pulse ratchets up a bit at those slick, shining lips. Good god.

“So?” Bucky echoes, quirks a brow as Steve catches the backs of his knees on the edge of the bed, lets himself fall back and takes Bucky with him, full-bodied against his chest with the full force of the momentum. “Think it’s clear which of us gonna get more pleasure out of this one.”

Steve says nothing, but oh: those pupils blow wide in the space of one of even Bucky’s thrumming heartbeats.

“Think I don’t know you well enough by now, Stevie?” Bucky breathes feathlight against Steve’s jaw. “Know what you need. But more’n that?”

And he’s stripping sliding at the knees to straddle Steve mid-torso, folding himself down to mouth at Steve’s lips:

“Know what you _want_.”

He wraps his thighs around Steve’s back and shifts his weight to pull Steve up, pull Steve chest-first onto him, now, as he spreads his legs and hikes up his knees, thighs wide.

Steve swallows hard, the wave of it traceable down his throat against the push of his pulse at the side, and Bucky grins like the cat with the cream because Steve loves this, the dirty, blessed punk. Loves this.

And will glad go at it ‘til Bucky screams.

“At your leisure, as they say,” Bucky prompts him, a little impatient, and little bit willing to just stare at Steve, staring at him, sizing up where to dive in, those fucking impossible lashes fluttering like he’s just had the breath knocked out of him, like he’s on a higher plane.

“I love you,” Steve says, low and almost feral, and Bucky’s grin only widens.

 

“I know.”

And Steve’s eyes flick up, more black than blue in them, unfocused as he leans to steal a kiss before he mouth straight down Bucky’s chest in the space of a breath, around his cock and lower, lower, tongue at Bucky’s hole before Bucky can ready himself, before he can save up any breath in his lungs to stay steady.

Fuckin’ hell. 

Steve’s mouth, see: that mouth is legendary for all the wrong reasons, s’far as the world will ever know. Because yeah, Steve doesn’t know when to fucking _shut_ said mouth, but when he’s putting it to good use around Bucky’s dick, it’s amazing.

Even better, though, is when Steve’s teasing his way into granted leave past Bucky’s opening, practiced and patient and utterly undaunted, fully committed and focused until the tip teases in, until the whole width fits through. 

“Oh my god,” and it’s Steve who speaks, who gasps words first to Bucky’s idle, breathless moaning, little whimpers he wouldn’t dare stifle or find shame in, for what brings them, for who sparks them. “Fuck, _fuck_ , babe, I,” and Steve’s kissing around the pucker of flesh the hint of that ring of muscle wet and widened, now, waiting, like it’s a gift; like it’s precisely the thing in the whole world that Steve wants most. “You’re—”

“More, Steve,” Bucky can’t help but beg a little, underneath the demand; “ _more_.”

“Don’t need to ask,” Steve teases his tongue into Bucky’s opening again to push the point. “The instructions were very specific. Have a very particular goal in mind.”

“Won’t take long,” Bucky pants, chest tight and lung sore in the sweetest of ways he’s ever known. “Too goddamn good at this for your own good.”

And god, but he is. Steve Rogers was made to kiss, was made to hold, was made to treasure and consume and give everything for.

But Steve Rogers was also made to eat out Bucky’s ass. 

Happy coincidence, really, all things taken together.

“Easy to be,” Steve says, voice a little small, a little hoarse as he kisses Bucky’s entrance with open lips, tongues it with an intimacy that shouldn’t be possible, except that this is Steve; “when it’s you.”

Bucky laughs, mostly because _feeling_ just comes over him and sometimes that’s the only way it knows how to burst out.

“Sap.”

Bucky feels Steve’s smirk against the cheeks of his ass, against the cleft there before Steve, without any warning, Steve’s tongue-fucking him without relent.

“ _Fuck_!” Bucky gasps loudly, muscles clenching even as he tries to keep his legs up, keep Steve exactly where he is, doing exactly what he’s doing for as long as he possible can.

“Oh, is that a scream?” Steve asks, fucking devilish. “Doesn’t seem like it would quite count—”

“Your tongue’s got better things to do, _goddamnit_ Rogers!”

Steve hums against Bucky’s over-sensitised hole. “That was _maybe_ a scream—”

But apparently not enough, because then Steve crooks his tongue just so, and leans back as Bucky trembles to blow soft, cold against the heat he’s built, and the shock to raw nerves sends Bucky reeling, toppling over the edge.

Steve’s propped on Bucky’s chest, that he’s cleaned with that talented tongue with as must gusto as he’s got, as Bucky catches his breath—grinning wide as anything. Bucky can’t help but draw him in for a kiss.

“You’re kinda perfect,” Bucky murmurs against the cherry-red swell of those lips. 

“Now.” 

And Bucky sits up, slides his hands under Steve’s ass and lifts him just a little. “Give me a piece of this,” he nips up Steve’s throat until Steve shudders; “and the licking’s probably gonna end up secondary, yeah? But I can _definitely_ make you scream.”

He’s climbing on top of Steve before Steve can think twice, straddling him again now, but lower, lining himself up to ride Steve’s straining cock as it grows visibly harder with every passing moment.

“ _Jesus_ , Buck,” Steve gasps before Bucky ever sinks down; the sound he makes once Bucky takes him full in one clean stroke is unnamable, save that it lives in a place in Bucky’s chest he didn’t even know existed, until there was Steve.

“Did you want it slow?” Bucky asks, already knowing the answer, but loving the way Steve’s eyes blaze, needy as fuck and not afraid to show it plain.

“Fuck no.”

Bucky lifts up, and sinks down mercilessly as he leans forward and kisses between Steve’s nipples: “ _Good_.”

It doesn’t take particularly long. Bucky’s hands stay on Steve’s ass, making sure he doesn’t flag for the trembling of his thighs, making sure it lasts as long as it _can_ , lifting him into it and relishing the depth of the groans that draws forth each time he does until Steve comes hard, and Bucky takes the lapse in control to flip them, never losing contact, never slipping free but letting Steve press him into the mattress, letting Steve sprawl boneless as Bucky pulls out and lets the heavy pulse of Steve’s heartbeat against his own sternum set the course for what comes, not just here and now, but for always.

Like always.

They don’t rush the process of catching their breaths, and even once they have, Steve’s head on Bucky’s chest now and Bucky’s hands still idly massaging Steve’s glutes, it’s long minutes before they deign to speak, let alone to move.

“Should we thank her, d’ya think?” Steve asks, suddenly, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“We didn’t _need_ her meddling.”

“‘Course not. But maybe like, some flowers?” Steve looks up at him. “‘Cause this is great. So great,” though he strokes a hand down Bucky chest with the kind of saccharine grin that’d be false on any other face, but only shines bright as any sun when it’s Steve: “Always is.”

And Bucky kisses him, and can deny him nothing.

“Flowers. We can think about it.”

Doesn’t mean he has to give in easy _every_ time, though.

They lie back down, and breathe gentle for another stretch of moments before Bucky reaches for the ice-cream cone card on the bedside table.

“I kinda feel like we shortchanged this one,” Bucky observes idly, though he knows Steve hears the suggestion underneath. “I mean, the sheer _multitude_ of things that could manage this. Honestly.”

“I’m not in a hurry to get out of bed,” Steve shrugs, noncommittal but again: Bucky knows him, and he too can read what isn’t flat-out said. “As I think I proved earlier.”

And Bucky’s surging upward, kissing him hard and grabbing for Steve’s cock, ready for round two. Both Bucky and Steve’s cock, that is. Ready.

“ _Perfect_.”


	3. Sweets and Saturates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you dying?”
> 
> Steve’s expression twists up around pure and honest confusion, and it’s such a goddamn adorable look, Bucky can’t help but snort.
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “You. Out of bed, of your own volition, before _I’m_ up. Something apocalyptic has to be nigh.”
> 
> Steve is a fucking child, and so Steve sticks his tongue out at Bucky even as he saunters closer, and Bucky notices the envelope in his hand as he taps it idly against his palm.
> 
> Ah. Right.
> 
>  _That’s_ why Steve’s up early.

Waking up in a Steve-less bed means one of two things.

One: world needs superheroes for one reason or another. In which case, Bucky’s up a hot second later.

Two: nightmare, or variations on the theme. In which case, Bucky feels the particular shift of the bed, weighted with something different from just going to grab a glass or water or taking a leak, and he’s up to be there, to keep distance or give comfort, whatever’s needed, but he’s always at hand because the whole point is to make sure that Steve knows, whatever he needs, that he’s got it, and whatever happens next, he’s not alone.

Seeing as Bucky is still in bed, and Steve is not, this places Bucky in a strange third-scenario limbo in which the world makes no sense, and for which there is no precedent.

It’s not some dire horror, though: Bucky’s a perpetual pessimist about such things, as Steve never tires of pointing out— _grumpy gills_ , is what he usually calls him, and heaven help Bucky if he ever runs into those Pixar people, not just for his own wrath for the shitty nicknames but likewise for Steve’s inevitable fanboying, the dweeb—but this. Bucky can tell when something wrong, and save for his absence, nothing feels _wrong_ about wherever Steve is, whatever’s got him out of bed before Bucky.

So Bucky doesn’t really think twice before rolling over and just making it easy.

“Stevie!”

Steve’s never been light of foot, but with the body he’s got now? Even a regular guy’s hearing could pick him out a mile away, if he’s not trying to be subtle.

Which is absolutely isn’t, thundering up the stairs toward the bedroom.

Bucky senses, more than sees Steve linger in the doorway. There’s a lightness, a warmth in it: Bucky can picture the smile Steve’s shooting his way, toothy grin shining from that face.

Bucky turns over and narrows eyes at him.

“Are you dying?”

Steve’s expression twists up around pure and honest confusion, and it’s such a goddamn adorable look, Bucky can’t help but snort.

“What?”

“You. Out of bed, of your own volition, before _I’m_ up. Something apocalyptic has to be nigh.”

Steve is a fucking child, and so Steve sticks his tongue out at Bucky even as he saunters closer, and Bucky notices the envelope in his hand as he taps it idly against his palm.

Ah. Right.

 _That’s_ why Steve’s up early.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Steve says, knocking Bucky playfully upside the head with the card and dropping it in Bucky’s lap before swinging his hips just a little _too_ wide as he moves to leave again.

“ _Breakfast_? Fuck, Steve, if you ain’t dying, when’s the asteroid hitting Earth?”

“You’re a jerk.”

Steve’s already on his way down the steps when Bucky calls out:

“Think Thor will give us a lift off-planet before impact?”

“Asshole!”

Bucky drops back on the bed for a second and grins up at the ceiling. Fuck, but sometimes? 

Life’s good.

______________________________________

“The hell are you doing?”

Bucky turns around at Steve’s question, pen in hand.

“Marking it on the calendar,” Bucky answers, scribbling in the box for the 14th; “Steve cooked, no casualties.”

“You’re a dick.”

“And you operated a toaster,” Bucky surveys the waffles on the table, and the stack of sausages; “ _and_ a microwave, and failed to set off the smoke alarm. Will wonders never cease?”

“I cooked all the time in Brooklyn,” Steve protests, to which Bucky snorts. 

“ _Cooked_ meaning you were real good at simmering shit in water. And I could fill a fucking book with how many times I had to replace the burn salve when you failed to understand the difference between a rolling boil and a two-hundred degree typhoon.”

Bucky gets a slice of a sausage link flicked at his face for his troubles. Ungrateful punk.

But Bucky does love said ungrateful punk more than life itself, so he decides to give into the romantic impulses of the day and hearken to the gist of the Valentine unceremoniously slapped upside his head just minutes ago.

Meaning: Bucky wraps two sausages up in an Eggo, dips the end into the pool of syrup on his plate, and catches Steve’s eyes meaningfully before opening his lips and sliding the waffle-roll straight in.

Steve stops, forkful of his own waffle suspending in midair, leaving a viscous trail of syrup dripping onto the tabletop, far short of Steve’s dropped jaw.

Which, in fact, encourages Bucky to drop his own jaw just a little, and hollow his cheeks for show, and let his eyes roll back as his tongue sneaks underneath the waffle he is joyously fellating, pink tip teasing his full-stretched lips before he closes them ‘round the whole shebang, winking saucily at Steve’s dumbfounded gaping, and chewing happily on a particularly sweet victory, evidenced by the sugar on his tongue and the gorgeous way Steve’s shifting in his chair.

Mmm, victory. Yes.

Steve finally gets the waffle into his mouth, and narrowly misses the puddle of dripped syrup off his plate as he slides a card face-down toward Bucky across the table.

Oh. Well, that explains things.

Bucky reaches into the pocket of the track pants he’d pulled on before coming downstairs to flash his own morning inspiration at his partner:

Steve grins, and starts to stand.

“Shall we?” he nods toward the bedroom, but Bucky only grabs for his knife and fork.

“Nah.”

Steve stops dead in his premature beeline for the staircase.

“Food, Stevie. Edible food, that you made, waiting here for me to eat. Modern fucking miracle in front of our faces,” Bucky gestures to the meal before him. “Ain’t gonna _waste_ it.”

Bucky’s got a mouth full of waffle when a full sausage link hits him in the nose, this time.

Worth it.

______________________________________

In the end, of course they make it to the bedroom.

And of course, Steve’s a corny five-year-old who thinks he’s funny when Bucky gets his pants off and Steve looks him up and down, hungry as hell when he drawls:

“Well, hot _dawg_ , Buck.”

Bucky’s tempted to grab his face and kiss him for all he’s worth, mostly to make sure nothing like _that_ comes out of that mouth again, but Steve’s sliding to his knees and swallowing Bucky quicker and deeper in a single go than Bucky could ever manage with a waffle, and good god _damn_.

That’ll work, too. 

And Steve works his shaft like a goddamn pro, because he is a goddamn pro at this shit, takes Bucky so far down his throat that every swallow makes him shiver; that Bucky thinks he can feel the nudge of Steve’s pulse in between; that Bucky’s ready to come in only minutes, hands clenched in Steve’s hair as his thighs start to shake and Steve’ll swallow it fully, gladly, and lick his lips salaciously when he’s done.

And that’s exactly what he does; except.

Except Steve pulls off quicker, less intent on driving Bucky to a second orgasm with the sucking and the drag of teeth against his oversensitized cock—no. No, Steve lets him go quick, so much so that Bucky’s still coming, almost but not quite spent so that he spills just a little against his own stomach, and all over Steve’s lips where they fucking gleam, and, and—

Oh. Oh, that’s a sight.

And _oh_ , Bucky realizes once Steve’s swallowing him again without more than a a few moments for breath: hot _and_ sticky.

Jesus _Christ_.

Bucky loses count of how many times Steve sucks him off, takes him down his throat far enough that Steve’s lips are teasing his balls—Bucky’s blind with it, broken and remade in it, and he’s covered in his own spunk as much as Steve’s slick and sticky all around his mouth, down his chin, and Bucky’s not sure how long it takes him to gather himself, gasping for air, to look at Steve, who’s watching him with a wonder that Bucky never tires of, and a ravenous _want_ that Bucky’ll never cease matching and filling as best he can, as often as he can; Bucky’s not sure how long it takes him. Just that Steve’s watching him, waiting, and Bucky’s not sure what comes next, exactly.

But whatever it is, he’s aching for it; impossibly— _hard_ for it, already. Again.

“So,” Steve says, standing and pulling Bucky down onto the bed with him in a fluid motion, the pearl sheen on his lips catching the light from the window and catching in the thump of Bucky’s heart in kind; “you alright with a little more sticky?”

“So long as it comes with the hot?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow.

Steve just grins, sucks his fingers between his bright swollen lips, and reaches down to stretch himself, smirk never leaving that face.

Bucky’s pretty sure this punk is gonna kill him someday. He always thought so. He wasn’t fucking lying. 

Steve’s pawing at Bucky in no time, coaxing him forward to line up and slide in, and Bucky’s a little dazed, still, from how many times he came down Steve’s throat, but his cock’s not, and that’s the key point just now; and his ears aren’t, even if his mind takes an extra second to process what Steve says and Bucky breaches him:

“Pull out before you come.”

And so Bucky rocks into Steve like a homecoming, like the natural thing that it is, and always has been, and Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and leads it up to wrap around Steve’s cock, grabs Bucky’s wrist to make sure Bucky jerks him hard enough, fast enough, and Bucky’s gonna come, and it’s going to be quick, and unfathomably after definitely upwards of ten orgasms and counting? It's going to be fucking _hard_.

And Steve clenches around him, as Bucky smears a thumb over his wet slit, and Steve moans, wanton, and it’s only just in time that Steve murmurs, “Pull out,” before Bucky does, before he’s coming, hard and long where he falls, chest to chest with Steve so that their cocks spill between them both, the mess of it mingling as Steve reaches and holds their length together, to feel it as they pulse and soften slow, and Jesus _fuck_.

Bucky’s heart’s a hammer as he collapses full on top of Steve, and Steve huffs a laugh, wraps an arm around Bucky’s back, even as he gasps, as his pulse races just as strong, and fuck. Fucking _hell_.

“Nap,” Steve murmurs against Bucky’s neck.

“Shower,” Bucky counters, forcing himself to sit up and drag Steve with him, even if Steve pouts just a little in reply.

“Then nap.” Because one: Steve’s not a morning person, and is suffering the consequences of trying to be. And two? Steve’s just given Bucky a fucking marathon of sex, and _Bucky’s_ tired, so he’s earned a fucking nap.

“Then nap,” Bucky agrees, as he steers them into the bathroom.

“Nap,” Steve nods, and then pauses, capturing Bucky’s lips in a quick kiss before they step into the shower:

“Nap. And _then_ more waffles.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh as he turns on the spray.


	4. Meat and Veg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m ordering flowers,” Bucky says, apropos of nothing. “And a card.”
> 
> Steve’s eyes brighten when he looks up again. “Are you now?”
> 
> “I certainly am,” Bucky grins. “Turns out it was a set.”
> 
> “Kinda obvious.”
> 
> “There was one missing.”
> 
> Steve’s lifts an eyebrow. “ _Was_ there, now.”
> 
> “Mmmhmm,” Bucky grins, cheeky. “Wanna help a fella out?”

Bucky’s poking at his phone when Steve blinks to wakefulness.

“Hmmm,” Steve murmurs as he snuggles into Bucky’s left side. Bucky’s arm automatically curls around him, draws him closer, and Steve fits himself atop Bucky’s chest with practiced ease. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Checking the balance of our savings.”

“Try again.”

“Close, though,” Bucky kisses Steve’s brow; they’ve got enough money to buy out a part of Stark Industries, between them, if they were so inclined. “Shopping online.”

“For?”

“Rings,” Bucky answers blankly.

Steve snorts against Bucky’s sternum. “You think I’m an idiot? Think I’d assume you mean the metal kind you put on a finger? Even if that _was_ what you were shopping for?”

Bucky smirks. “So smart, Stevie. See right through me.”

Steve smiles, and sucks a little bit, just a breath’s worth, against Bucky nipple. “Pretty much a genius. Least when it comes to you.”

Bucky runs fingers through Steve’s messy hair, massaging his scalp until Steve arches into the touch.

“I’m ordering dinner.”

Steve looks up. “Dinner?”

“Not for us.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Not for us?”

“I mean, I will order for us, later.”

“I could cook,” Steve deadpans, and Bucky smirks harder.

“Toast and,” Bucky mulls over what would match in the microwave. “You could do grilled cheese without the grilling? Microwave-cheese?”

“Fuck you.”

“Already covered, but I’m up for an encore later.”

Steve drops his head back down onto Bucky’s chest, lets his hand slid up and down Bucky’s flank, teasing at the trail of hair on the midline of his stomach.

“I’m ordering flowers,” Bucky says, apropos of nothing. “And a card.”

Steve’s eyes brighten when he looks up again. “Are you now?”

“I certainly am,” Bucky grins. “Turns out it was a set.”

“Kinda obvious.”

“There was one missing.”

Steve’s lifts an eyebrow. “ _Was_ there, now.”

“Mmmhmm,” Bucky grins, cheeky. “Wanna help a fella out?”

And Steve flips, hips to hips and chest to chest as he pecks at Bucky’s mouth and them maneuvers to see Bucky’s phone screen as he answers:

“Always.”

______________________________________

London was exhausting, as it happened. Honestly, Natasha doesn’t particularly care for London, and that’s probably more to blame than the neo-Hydra cell she was taking out.

But there’d been the _cards_ , and that’d been _more_ than worth it.

She smirks to herself as she lets herself into her apartment, ready to strip and sink into a long, hot soak with some lavender milk and candles and maybe a book, maybe not—wine, or maybe whiskey, or maybe vodka: whatever she fucking desires, is the point.

But as soon as she opens the door, the scents are overwhelming.

She frowns, but knows in an instant no one’s waiting for her—she doesn’t like the idea that anyone’s been in her space without her presence, without her supervision, but then she sees it.

All of it.

First, though, the flowers. The strangest bouquet she’s ever seen, honestly, taking up half of her kitchen table. She approaches it from all angles, taking it in and plucking cards from little plastic tongs poked in on every side: identification cards, for the blossoms. [Anthurium](http://anthuriumhi.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/kozohara-anthurium-flower.jpg). [Italian orchid](http://www.northernstar-online.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/naked-man-orchid-flower.jpg). [Bolivian torch cactus](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/19/Echinopsis_lageniformis.jpg/220px-Echinopsis_lageniformis.jpg). [Snake lily](https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3610/3621186987_47b20299d6_b.jpg).

And in the middle: she opens a card that’s placed strategically over the least subtle of the images evoked by the collection. 

[Chinese Fleeceflower](https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-X6n4rB2py1A/UN0ZpRt7rFI/AAAAAAAAAlw/b-LFlbCO4A0/w800-h800/306255_346560468732244_1140875310_n.jpg). 

Which may well have been grown specifically that way, in fact Natasha is almost _positive_ because even _if_ a root sprung up like that on its own? The sheer impressiveness of that tuberous erection is…

Yeah. No way in hell that’s just how it happened to pop out. Pun unintended.

Well, sort of. Sort of unintended.

But oh. Oh, they’re _good_.

And as strange as the flowers are—if they can pass for flowers, if it can pass for a _gift_ of _flowers_ , though admittedly it probably wasn’t meant to; as strange as the flowers are?

The meal that’s clashing in the olfactory department is even stranger.

But then, of course it is.

Because _of course it is_ , as _of course_ it’s comprised of every conceivable variety and orientation of two things. Just two. As many was out fit in Natasha’s oven, her microwave, and on every not-flower-claimed surface in the kitchen.

Vegetables of various sorts. And sausage.

Hot dogs. Bratwurst, Sausage rolls. Mortadella. Cumberland sausages. Salami. Pigs in a blanket. Toad in the Hole. Ketwurst. Klobásník. Battered sausages. Polish boys. Italian sausage sandwiches. Botifarra. Bacon explosion. Galette-saucisse. Currywurst.

And that’s just what she recognises on sight.

She catches the envelope in her peripherals, underneath a basket of stubby red-orange things. She slides it out before giving said stubby-things her attention.

And she laughs, full-bodied and a little hysterical with both mirth and exhaustion, when she extracts the card.

Opening it, she reads, and realises precisely what the stubby-things are:

 _Use the[Peter peppers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_pepper) with your meal; they’re basically a vegetable  and a meat_.

The first half of the sentence is in Steve’s hand; the last in Bucky’s, and oh hell.

 _Hell_ , but she loves those fucking fossils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
